


Dreamcatcher

by Kestrel337



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Domestic, Ficlet, Fluff, Multi, OT3, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Silver Fox Saturday
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-21
Updated: 2013-09-21
Packaged: 2017-12-27 05:25:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/974944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kestrel337/pseuds/Kestrel337
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes Sherlock sleeps deeply enough to have nightmares.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dreamcatcher

**Author's Note:**

> Characters not mine. No disrespect intended, no money made.
> 
> Neither beta read nor brit-picked.

It doesn’t happen often. Dreaming requires sleep, requires that the brain be permitted to venture along the unpredictable paths of imagination, memory, and emotion. Sherlock rarely sleeps deeply, preferring to recharge with catnaps and meditative visits to the orderly and regimented hallways of his mind palace. The lure of a cozy bed, redolent of his lovers’ sleep warmed skin, has worked some change in those habits, but dream-deep slumber is still an unusual occurrence. There are times, however, when even he succumbs to the visions and terrors of the night. Fever, of course, will spin his brain into a bizarre world devoid of logical cause and effect, as have an alarming number of accidental poisonings. These are John’s responsibility; a physician to address the physical with tablets and touches and strict kitchen protocols.

At other times, Lestrade is the only source of relief. After lengthy cases, or when a final showdown has gone badly sideways, Greg will waken to the soft whimpers, will look past John to see Sherlock’s sleep shirt pulled taut over hunching shoulders. The older man will slide carefully from beneath the duvet, round the bed with a sigh as Sherlock’s breathing hitches and his legs quiver where he’s kicked out of the blankets. Softly sitting on the mattress, Greg will rest one hand between protruding shoulders blades. Not circling or stroking, simply pressing down against tight muscles and letting the warmth of his palm seep through cotton and flesh. Sometimes, this silent presence is enough. Sherlock will sigh and settle, Greg will return to his own side of the bed, and all will be well in the morning. If more is needed, if the long legs begin to pull into a protective curl or the trembling fingers reach for some unknown talisman, the blunt fingers will drift up and squeeze ever so slightly at the base of Sherlock’s skull. The other hand gentles over the straining forearm, deliberate and rhythmic strokes from wrist to elbow and back again. Greg always follows these same steps, never skips over one touch to the next, though he knows well enough what is to follow. Sherlock’s distress will be given voice in broken and largely unintelligible murmurs, though sometimes Greg’s or John’s name will break through. Greg will lean over, press his lips to the exposed ear, and whisper softly of comfort, of safety, of peace. This litany of love was born of desperation the grim night when it was Mycroft’s name wrenched from Sherlock’s sleeping lips, in tones so wrecked and wretched that Greg was unable to return to his own rest. Now, he captures the tortured moans with his own mouth, replaces them with sweet kisses and gentle words, until Sherlock sleeps quietly once more. Then Greg straightens the blankets, slides into his own space, and shuffles until one leg is draped over John and nestled, skin on skin, against Sherlock’s calf. Only once he is touching both his lovers does he allow himself to relax back to his own dreams.


End file.
